


Cutthroat Cataclysm

by Cas_tellations



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Alternate Canon, Anal Sex, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Beaches, Bottom Jaskier | Dandelion, Character Death, Dragons, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt/Comfort, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, M/M, Masturbation, Original Character(s), POV Jaskier | Dandelion, Sunsets, Top Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-21
Updated: 2020-05-21
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:28:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24301354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cas_tellations/pseuds/Cas_tellations
Summary: Jaskier thinks about Geralt a lot, when he leaves.A story of falling apart and falling back together, based on the song 'Skin' by Ran'n'Bone Man
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 91





	Cutthroat Cataclysm

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was supposed to be 1-2k... it got a little bit out of hand. I hope you have as much fun reading it as I did writing it.

> Cutthroat Cataclysm
> 
> Holding me like this with poison on your lips only when it’s over… the silence hits so hard

**⭒✩⭑✶’✯’✶⭑✩⭒**

Jaskier watches Geralt walk away. Like a cataclysmic event; like some sort of tectonic shifting, the world seems to change. It morphs, somehow. It turns a bit harder, a bit uglier - a bit closer to a world with a perilous ration between monsters and heroes. The type of ratio that tips in the monster’s favour despite it all. The type of ratio that means that people like Jaskier -  _ normal  _ people - are in just a fraction more danger than they think they are. 

He watches Geralt’s receding form. Maybe it’s sadistic, the way that he can’t tear his eyes away, the way that every fibre of his being clings to the last dregs of Geralt’s scent in the air that Jaskier can’t figure out if it’s  _ really there  _ or just in his imagination. He might blink, but honestly, at his point he’s not sure if he does. If he does, Geralt’s form is burned into the back of his eyelids, stuck in Jaskier’s mind so he sees him  _ anyway.  _

It’s sunny out, probably one of the last few days of summer before autumn falls into place. It feels cold, anyway. 

Like a fool, Jaskier stands at the entrance of the town and looks into the forest until he can’t see even a hint of Geralt and Roach. He stands there like a lovestruck maiden as townsfolk walk around him and knock into his shoulders. He stands there, and stands there, and stands there. 

He gets drunk enough that night to wonder where Geralt is when he wakes up the next morning. 

“I’m leaving.” Geralt had said and spat blood to the ground before Jaskeirs feet. 

Not even a goodbye, not  _ we,  _ not a goddamn reason. 

Well, there was a reason. Jaskier shoves this thought away and orders more ale, sways drunkenly in the middle of the pub with his lute and he doesn’t know what he’s singing anymore, just knows his words are slurred and jeers are thrown at him but then someone buys  _ him  _ another drink and the night slides away. 

He thinks, sometimes, that perhaps Geralt’s frown had been a little softer around the edges when he had left. Like maybe Geralt had given him a smile. The rational part of his mind says it never happened. His nightmares say otherwise.

**⭒✩⭑✶’✯’✶⭑✩⭒**

_ The castle falls towards him. Crumbles, really. A stone hits the side of his hard, and he can’t move back fast enough before a beam comes thundering down, crushing him across the chest.  _

**⭒✩⭑✶’✯’✶⭑✩⭒**

Jaskier trudges along a path to a town he doesn’t know, to people he’s never met. He might be looking for something subconsciously, might be chasing after the ghost of somebody between the thistles and the dust and the poison painted on stranger’s lips. The nights always start with music, always start with only a bit of liquor - only a taste, really. Most nights he can’t remember how the music ends. Most night he drowns himself and allows himself to be pulled down to the bottom. 

The other bard’s hands are soft against his skin, and they had spent the night drinking only a little and singing a lot, till their voices were hoarse and it was closer to dawn than twilight. The bard herds Jaskier up against the wall, brackets him in with his arms and grins at him like he’s something feral. 

It’s not a long fuck; but it’s a hard one and leaves Jaskier gingerly lowing himself into the bath the next morning, a long while after his companion had left. He winces, but eventually the warm water soothes his muscles, drawing out the worst of the pain from the bruises and bite marks left over. When he’s done, he grabs his lute and his pack and leaves the inn, doesn’t ask for directions but makes it to the next town over anyway. 

Melodies come to him easy as breathing, and he sings them under his breath as he moves through the countryside, westward - towards the sea. 

He sings of the sky, of the hawk the circles far above him. 

He sings of the weird shapes in the clouds and the heart of mountain goats that he passes. 

**⭒✩⭑✶’✯’✶⭑✩⭒**

_ Covered in dust, marred with cuts that are sure to scar and all that he can think about is Geralt.  _

**⭒✩⭑✶’✯’✶⭑✩⭒**

He keeps walking from town to town, trudges on foot until someone offers to sell him a horse for the rest of the coin that Jaskier has, and then he goes on horseback. 

The beast keeps him company, and they have lovely conversations where Jaskier talks and the horse listens. Sometimes it presses it’s nose to his shoulder when Jaskier is eating or playing a tune. Sometimes it makes noises at him, and seems to smile with its eyes, throwing its head in the air and running in circles around Jaskier when he’s settling down for the night in some forest or another. It’s almost as if the creature is trying to entertain him. Or maybe it’s just stupid and doesn’t know how to run away. 

Either way, Jaskier starts calling him Sedge, and write a song or two for him. 

“What d’you think of all this mess, then?” he asks Sedge one day, tired and hungry and still heading west. 

“If you must know,” he says, when Sedge just keeps walking steadily forward, “I think it’s a load of bullocks. Where are we even going?” He pauses, imagines an answer, “westward, yes, I know. But what after that? And after that? Are we just going to keep walking backwards and forwards till we die? West, East, West again, then east again, then west after that.” 

Sedge makes a quiet sighing sound. 

“Yes, I know.” Jaskier says, and then hums for a little bit, eyes wandering across the skyline as they move out of the forest, “I know what we can do. We’ll go north, too. And then south. We’ll see this whole dammed world.” 

Sedge snorts. 

Jaskier smiles, a bit. 

**⭒✩⭑✶’✯’✶⭑✩⭒**

_ Geralt looks tired. He’s covered in blood. And yes, sure, it’s not his blood. But he still looks tired. The monsters had apparently been vicious. Jaskier had asked about them, over and over again, but Geralt refused to tell him about it. He just disappeared mid-afternoon and showed back up at the inn covered in blood and guts with a faraway look in his eye.  _

_ Jaskier draws him a bath.  _

_ “What creatures were they?” He asks, sitting on a stool by the window as Geralt strips from his armour and then his underclothes. The blood had seeped through the cracks in the amour and sunk through the rest of the fabric. His skin is stained pink, running in rivulets, dried mixed with sweat. His face is filthy, cacked with dust turned to mud with sweat and everything that comes with tearing sinew.  _

_ Geralt grabs a washcloth, dumps it in the steaming bath water and rubs it across his face.  _

_ It comes away filthy. He rubs it down his arm and grimaces when it just moves the filth around. He tosses it aside, and it lands with a dull splat somewhere across the room.  _

_ “I bet they gave you a run for your money,” Jaskier says, desperately trying to fill the silence of the room.  _

_ “They must’ve been really tough to render you speechless. Though I suppose you are often speechless.”  _

_ Jaskier tightens his grip around his lute, “I wrote another song-”  _

_ He plucks at the strings, filling the room with sound. It’s a good sound, he thinks. It’s a good song. He starts humming and is about to start singing when he hears another splat.  _

_ Another discarded washcloth, then. Geralt doesn’t look any cleaner, though.  _

_ “When I heard that sound…” Jaskier starts singing, but is cut off by a sharp hiss.  _

_ “What? Geralt? Was that you?”  _

_ Gerant grunts rather eloquently, then waves him off.  _

_ “Er- can I help you?”  _

_ Geralt shrugs, and Jaskier can see the ripple of pain across his face this time.  _

_ “What happened? Did you get hit? I didn’t see any wounds, are you okay?” He puts his lute down on the windowsill where moonlight streams in.  _

_ Geralt doesn’t move. It seems like he’s doing his best to ignore Jaskier. Which, to be fair, is not that unusual. He keeps rubbing the cloth across his skin, slowly getting all the gunk off, slowly cleansing himself from the reminisce of something else’s life.  _

_ Jaskier’s not really sure what to do. He stands in front of Geralt for a few hesitant moments, looking at all that blood.  _

_ “Can I help?” _

_ Gerant grunts again. It might be a yes. Jaskier grabs a cloth, dunks it in the water. It’s hot - nearly boiling. Just how Geralt likes it. He presses it to Geralt’s shoulder, feels the taut muscles and the leftover adrenaline from the fight. He moves slowly around until he’s faced with Geralt’s back. _

_ He frowns. “Some of this looks fresh.” _

_ He rubs at it, and Geralt’s muscles ripple under his hands.  _

_ “Geralt?” _

_ “Might’ve gotten stabbed.”  _

_ “Geralt!”  _

_ They get him cleaned up, in the end. He sinks into the tub after he’s mostly clean and Jaskier throws his clothes in another bucket of water to soak the grime out of them.  _

_ He sits back down on his stool by the side of the tub and sings his song to Geralt. Maybe he’s listening. It’s quite likely he’s not, though. His eyes are closed, and his breaths come in long sighs. Jaskier had been right; he was tired. In the end, it matters very little if Geralt is actually listening. Jaskier likes filling up the room with sound. Of course, it is always nicer if somebody is listening. But it’s nice, too, to be able to let himself go and fill the room up to the brim without worrying about somebody throwing something at him.  _

_ Jaskier plays a bit softer than he usually does, and lets Geralt rest.  _

**⭒✩⭑✶’✯’✶⭑✩⭒**

It’s hard to find people that will pay for him to play his music. Pub’s scoff at him and mayors roll their eyes, saying that they already have a bard to call upon. He gets by, at first. For a while, he makes it. The theft starts later, and then he fares a little better, though he has to run a little faster. 

He jumps from town to town and slams every door behind him. 

Sedge is fast, and he’s only caught once or twice. Almost hung a few times, almost sentenced to death, almost caught. He keeps evading his end, but it’s bound to be inevitable one day. One of these days it’s bound to stick. 

The truth is, he has a horse and his lute and his voice, and that should be enough. 

He starts following monsters. 

Maybe this is the way to be closest to Geralt now. Maybe this is the only way to catch up to his memory, the only way to feel how he made him feel again. The only way to  _ be  _ again, with all that adrenaline and breathy laughter and the feeling of surviving something impossible. The feeling of having Geralt jump in front of him and defeat monsters with such ease, slicing them to pieces. 

Jaskier’s not like that. He can’t kill like Geralt; can’t save people as he could. 

Hell, he can’t even save himself. 

So he follows the monsters, some part of his soul hoping that it’ll bring back some sort of memory of Geralt, thinking about him always. 

He finds the monsters too, sometimes. They’re full of beady red eyes and screaming mouths, fangs as long as his forearm with claws to match. If he was braver or better, he might fight. Instead, he runs. He runs, and sometimes he gets hit. Sometimes he’s dragged off of Sedge and sometimes he hurts so bad that he thinks he might  _ die _ . 

Sometimes he falls, and it’s so goddamn hard to get back up. 

**⭒✩⭑✶’✯’✶⭑✩⭒**

_ They’ve fallen into some sort of rhythm with enough give-and-take for Jaskier to feel satisfied. It’s not anything to put a title to, but it happens one day on a drunken whim and then doesn’t really come to a stop after that, so Jaskier doesn’t feel weird about this now, where he’s standing before the four-poster bed that Geralt is spread across, resting with his eyes closed but not asleep yet. He has one hand behind his head and the other resting on his stomach, his ankles crossed.  _

_ He toes off his boots and crawls up the bed, grinning up at Geralt when he squints an eye open. He settles with a thigh on either side of Geralt’s. _

_ “Geralt of Rivia. Fancy meeting you here.”  _

_ He gets an eye roll in return.  _

_ “Wonderful quarters, really - fit for a king of the highest order!”  _

_ The room is shabby. It’s the cheapest one that the inn has.  _

_ “I wonder how I am to deserve a majesty such as yourself,” Jaskier says, with a teasing grin, eyes bright.  _

_ “Oh, shut up.” Geralt says, and gets his big hands around Jaskier’’s shoulders, flipping them and pressing Jaskier down into the mattress, covering him with his body.  _

_ They stay like that for a moment, breathing in each other’s space, electricity running through their skin.  _

_ It’s not so much a kiss as it is a bite; all teeth and tongue and rough stubble. Geralt makes short work of Jaskier’s clothes, throwing them to the side and pressing one hand to his chest and his other one down, curing around Jaskier’s hip, pulling him up so that they’re pressed flush against each other. Geralt is still wearing his clothes, but Jaskier doesn’t have time to rectify that situation because Geralt’s mouth is on his neck and then his teeth are scraping down and he’s sucking marks into his skin in the hollow of his collar bone.  _

_ “Is this what you fucking wanted?” Geralt growls, fist closing around Jaskier’s flushed cock.  _

_ “Shit,” Jaskier throws his head back, tries to arch up, “yeah - fuck.”  _

_ “Do it yourself.” Geralt says, deep in his ear. He lets go.  _

_ Jaskier whines and feels his face flush red with embarrassment.  _

_ “If you want me to fuck you,” Gerant says slowly, “you’ll do it yourself first.”  _

_ He protests, at first, but eventually touches himself, and Geralt hums low praise. Jaskier brings himself to the edge and then opens himself up for Geralt, oil running in rivulets and thighs shaking when he’s done, cock so hard that precome smears across his stomach.  _

_ It’s a long night.  _

_ When they’re done, Geralt rolls away and draws a bath. The water is much cooler than Geralt likes it, but it’s the perfect temperature for Jaskier, and he sinks into it with a soft sigh. Geralt joins him, a moment later. He doesn’t say much, but also doesn’t protest when Jaskier moves so that his back is pressed up to Geralt’s chest.  _

_ It’s good.  _

_ It’s really good. _

_ Jaskier thinks that he could probably stay like this for a long, long time without getting bored.  _

**⭒✩⭑✶’✯’✶⭑✩⭒**

One year melts into two and he’s reached the coast; he made it as far west as he can go. He stands at the edge of a precipice with Sedge now, and looks across the water. Earth disappears into nothing out there, and he can see the curvature of it all, sees to the end of the world. If he had a boat he might sail out that way - keep going west, see where he ends up. Would he reach another land? 

Maybe he’d fall off the edge, or a storm would rip his boat to pieces. Either way, he wouldn’t be able to bring Sedge, so he doesn’t entertain the boat idea for very long. There are towns scattered along the coastline, but Jaskier hops off of Sedge and walks along with the head of the cliff until it melts down a hill and meets the sandy beach in a soft hill. 

Sedge is afraid of the waves at first, shying away with his head and tail held high, nostrils flaring. He calms down after a few minutes and they walk over to the shade of an apple tree, boots and hooves sinking into the sun-bleached sand. 

Jaskier sits and watches the world spin. Sedge eats the fallen apples. The sun warms their skin, and the sun sinks down to water level before their eyes. 

“It’s quite beautiful, wouldn’t you say?” Jaskier says, and runs his fingers across the strings of his lute. 

“Oh, sun,” He says the words in a sing-song manner, but it’s little more than just raw thoughts. Not enough to turn into a song, just himself, laid bare. “Fall down, beneath the horizon…” 

“...I’m still here, sun…” 

It’s quiet. His thoughts come and go. Sedge nibbles at some grass growing up the embankment. 

“Still here, when you leave, when the moon comes and the stars shine,” 

He plays a few cords. It doesn’t sound like much. He can’t fill this space; it’s too big. 

“Oh, sun… have you always been watching me so blindly? I haven’t noticed ‘till now… Me and Sedge and the ocean and there you are… watching above us all.” 

Sedge wanders further away, a little up the hill. Jaisker had taken his tack off, but isn’t too worried about the beast running away. Sedge likes him. 

“Did you watch when the Witcher left? I remember you there, bright and blinding and all I wanted was for you to weep for me and yet you shone instead.” 

“Ah, yet you shone instead.” He lets his hands fall from the lute. All of a sudden he feels exhausted. Like all at once the last two years of running and hiding and getting hit are catching up to him. “Oh sun,” he says, digging a hand into the warm sand, why won’t you stop shining on my sorrows?” 

Twilight falls around him. He supposes that the sun had listened to him after all. 

It reminds him of Geralt - bright and blinding and all-encompassing. It’s odd, he reflects, to think of the Witcher as the sun. The Witcher is told in stories wrapped in darkness, horror and death. It’s not natural to think of him in the sun, warm and safe. 

But that’s the thing - Geralt was safe. He was safe and sometimes he was downright blinding; commanding all the attention of everybody in the room even if he didn’t want it. He was more than just a fighter; he was a warrior; something stronger than a soldier, something that doesn’t  _ lose.  _ The moon, too, is nothing without the sun. Without the sun’s presence, the moon would not shine. And so, in some sort of roundabout way, that makes Jaskier the moon, following the sun across the sky, lighting up whenever they face each other. The only difference, then, would be that the sun rises each morning to kiss Jaskier’s skin. And yes - some days it is overtaken by rain and fog and cloud - but it always comes back. 

It has been two years since Jaskier watched Geralt's receding form. 

That’s the difference right there.

Jaskier falls asleep after a short while. As he suspected, Sedge is there when he wakes up. He’s not sure why he expected to wake up and be greeted by Geralt. 

**⭒✩⭑✶’✯’✶⭑✩⭒**

_ The beam cuts into his chest, and his legs get pinned down with heavy stone. He can’t feel one of his arms. His back is meshed up against broken shards of glass. From a tree a few yards away, Sedge throws himself back against his lead, tries to break free, a wild terrifying look to his eye.  _

_ Jaskier coughs and tastes a metallic tang of blood on his tongue.  _

_ Geralt, Geralt, Geralt, Geralt, Geralt- _

_ It comes like a mantra. He repeats it like rosary beads, like a bible verse, like something fundamental to believe in.  _

_ Geralt, Geralt, Geralt, Geralt, Geralt… _

_ Everything slowly fades to black. _

**⭒✩⭑✶’✯’✶⭑✩⭒**

They stay on the coast and wander through the villages dotting the coastline, heading north first and then swinging back down around South when he realizes that winter is coming. He watches the sunrise each evening and even sings at some pubs. For the first time in a while, it’s nice. It’s peaceful. He doesn’t mean to stay for long, but he does anyway. A few weeks turn into a month which snowballs into two and then three. 

In the end, half a year passes before he swings back east. Back and forth, across the continent, just like he had told Sedge they would do, so long ago. 

**⭒✩⭑✶’✯’✶⭑✩⭒**

Another year passes. He wakes up in a stranger’s bed and his mouth tastes like something died in it. The stranger introduces herself as Wren and she’s beautiful in a way that Geralt hadn’t been. She has a sharp look to her eye but a soft smile and smooth skin free from all the scars that had been strewn across Geralt’s. 

She makes him breakfast and has a cat named Fafa, who purrs and promptly gets white fur on every piece of Jaskier’s clothing. 

“I really must be going soon,” He says, words hurried as he shovels eggs into his mouth, “my horse?”

“Out in the paddocks,” She gives him a curious look, “stay a while, though.” 

She gives him a look that Geralt had never given him. She looks like she wants him to stay. He hasn’t been wanted for a long time. Hasn’t been asked to stick around in an even longer expanse of time. Or maybe never. He fumbles over an excuse for a moment. 

He stays that night, though, and the next one too. 

Wren’s a nice woman, quick wit wrapped up in kindness. Fafa, though her fur is annoying, grows on Jaskier, too. He almost leaves a few times during those first few weeks. He’s been moving for so long, it’s hard to stop. He gets as far as the next town over one day before he turns Sedge around and heads back to somebody he knows he could actually fall in love with one day. 

**⭒✩⭑✶’✯’✶⭑✩⭒**

In the end, it’s not Jaskier that leaves Wren. 

It’s Wren that goes and dies; gets herself wrapped up in something she’s got no business in. The monster-hunting kind, the vengeance kind of bullshit. 

Jaskier takes Fafa with him when he leaves. She’s an interesting little cat and is perfectly content with sitting on Sedge’s saddlebags as they continue to trek westward. 

**⭒✩⭑✶’✯’✶⭑✩⭒**

Save yourself. 

That’s what Wren had said. 

Jaskier’s the most self-destructive person he knows, though. His back still hurts from where the monster had got him. He probably still has artery spray across his clothes. He’s doing his best to look forward instead of down or back. He got to give Wren a burial. That’s what counts. A muddy grave and some flowers and a headstone without a name or date on it. It’s just a mark for someone to stumble over, a bit of raised ground and a sizable stone. 

She didn’t really have any family. 

She might have had a few friends, but nobody was particularly close to her. All she had was Jaskier. All that brightness, all that happiness and sarcasm and genuine smiles… gone now, somewhere under the dirt. She’ll fade with his memories. When he dies too it’ll be like she didn’t even exist at all. 

He rides away from the sunset. 

If someone was standing at the head of the road before him, they would see a despairing sight:

A man, skinny and covered in dried blood from the neck down, leaning heavily to one side to account for his injury. The horse - dark brown in colour with intelligent eyes - is carrying heavy leather saddlebags. There’s an old lute tied to the side. The horse’s legs and chest are covered in mud and sweat soaks through its coat. There’s a curious-looking cat perched on the saddlebags, pure white - albeit a bit dusty. The man’s head is tilted back and lulling from side to side, in pain or sadness - it’s hard to tell. 

Weary travellers. The man could be a monster hunter, but he looks too soft around the edges. 

They’re silhouetted up against the sunset. They’re soon swallowed up by the forest. 

**⭒✩⭑✶’✯’✶⭑✩⭒**

_ “Geralt,” Jaskier asks. Or maybe he’s begging, “Geralt, Geralt please - please this really fucking hurts.”  _

_ “I know.” He says, low and deep and  _ there. 

_ “I don’t want to go.”  _

_ “You’re not going anywhere.” Geralt curses and hoists Jaskier up behind him on Roach.  _

_ Pain encompasses Jaskier, damn near knocks him out. He’s covered in lacerations and bite marks. They’re not super deep - at least, that’s what Geralt had said. But Roach is running so fast. It hurts. It feels like he’s surrounded in fire - everything too hot and too close and too much.  _

_ “Geralt,” Jaskier says, and then another ripple of pain overtakes him.  _

**⭒✩⭑✶’✯’✶⭑✩⭒**

Jaskier thinks about the time a pack of wendigo almost ate him quite a lot. Maybe it’s too much, seeing as it was a long time ago and with the help of a little magic the damn injuries hadn’t even scarred, but that doesn’t stop him from remembering it. It’s a visceral memory, too real to be able to herd away with some music. 

Roach had ran them miles to find a magical healer. 

Even though Geralt had said he’d be fine, Jaskier knows he had been on the brink of death. At least, he knows that now. Back then… back then he had listened to Geralt’s words, had shrugged the event off and moved forward as if it had never happened. Geralt had held him at an arm's length after that, though. 

**⭒✩⭑✶’✯’✶⭑✩⭒**

Save yourself, Wren had said. Jaskier’s not sure how to do that. He hadn’t been able to save her. 

He’s still alive; that has to count for something. 

**⭒✩⭑✶’✯’✶⭑✩⭒**

The dragon finds then as they’re travelling through the mountains. It’s a massive creature, scales such a dark red it almost looks black in the dying twilight. 

“I mean you no harm,” Jaskier says, and his voice is high - it wavers. 

Sedge takes a few steps back. Fafa hisses. 

“Please, please - Okay, I’m sorry for - for intruding on your land. Your highness! Please, okay, please we’re just passing through! We mean you no harm!” 

The dragon doesn’t move. It’s chest heaves as its eyes flick from Jaskier and Sedge to Fafa, who had been trotting along on the ground behind them but who’s now stood in front of Sedge, fur all puffed up and ears pinned back. 

“ _ Turn back _ ,” The beast’s voice roars, and its eyes shine with gold. Jaskier’s never seen a creature this big before. Sedge is probably smaller than it’s  _ head.  _

“You see - sir - or - or madam, we were really hoping to head-” 

The beast growls.

“Right, yes, okay. Turning around now. Good day.” 

Jaskier scoops up Fafa and swings onto Sedge, tuning the reins around and pressing his legs to the horse’s side, “let’s go, let’s go, let’s go,” he squeaks. 

The journey down the mountain is harder than the one up. They don’t dare stop until they make it to the town at the base of the mountain range. By the time they make it to the inn, Sedge is covered in sweat and Fafa is trying and failing to sleep across the front of the saddle. 

Jaskier plays his lute at the inn that night, singing of wildflowers and comfort and smiles brighter than the biggest star in the sky. He doesn’t usually drink as much these days as he used to, but he drinks enough ale now to warm his skin. It doesn’t stop his thoughts from being plagued with Wren’s warmth and Geralt’s safety, though. 

**⭒✩⭑✶’✯’✶⭑✩⭒**

_ All he can think about is Geralt. Geralt is supposed to save him from everything. Why isn’t Geralt saving him now?’ _

**⭒✩⭑✶’✯’✶⭑✩⭒**

_ Jaskier rolls over and slings a leg across Geralt’s waist, curls a fist above a particularly gruesome knot of scars. It’s warm, early morning air sweeping through the window. It’s intimate in a way that they don’t usually allow themselves to be. Normally, everything is laced with hard edges and teeth.  _

_ This is soft, though. This is warm.  _

_ Geralt rolls away and stands.  _

_ Jaskier’s closed fist falls to the warm mattress.  _

**⭒✩⭑✶’✯’✶⭑✩⭒**

They keep heading west. Jaskier leaves piles and piles of wildflowers on Wren’s grave. It takes a while to find it. He plays songs to her memory and her bone far into the night. He sleeps curled up around the gravestone, chest heavy and breaths tight. 

**⭒✩⭑✶’✯’✶⭑✩⭒**

Whispers of a White Wolf find him, and his heart leaps to his throat. He asks where such a Wolf is headed and follows the trail. More and more stories of a powerful Witcher grace his ears and for the first time in a long while, the songs he plays have hopeful undertones. 

He sings  _ Toss a Coin to your Witcher  _ and receives cheers and is told to go north if he wants to find the Witcher. So for the first time since he had first arrived at the sea, Jaskier heads north. Thankfully, it’s summer instead of winter. It takes a while for the trail to go cold. 

But it does eventually - go cold, that is. 

Jaskier turns west. He misses the sea. 

**⭒✩⭑✶’✯’✶⭑✩⭒**

_ He surrenders to Geralt, goes limp beneath his body at night and follows him without hesitation during the day. In a way, he’s shackled by Geralt. Certainly, this Witcher brings to him the most exciting of adventures. Jaskier stands by him in an unwavering manner. It’s hard not to, though, when Geralt holds him like this, when he finds him in the dark and jumps between him and the monsters, taking all those claws and fangs and weapons that the dark throws at Jaskier. Geralt is always there to intercept them.  _

_ And if he can’t take the hit for him, if he can’t stop the pain from hitting its target… Jaskier knows that Geralt won’t let him die.  _

_ He knows that Geralt won’t give up on him. _

**⭒✩⭑✶’✯’✶⭑✩⭒**

_ A cataclysmic event. A cutthroat, soul-wrenching event that left Jaisker reeling. Geralt isn’t supposed to leave. Geralt is supposed to save him.  _

_ He watches his silhouette disappear.  _

**⭒✩⭑✶’✯’✶⭑✩⭒**

Jaisker’s never come across this castle before. It’s small, he supposes, for a castle. And granted, he doesn’t know the northern portion of the coast that well. It’s a warm day, the sun beating down against his back. To their left is the forest, all tall trees and rustling leaves. To the right is the sea, massive and blue and everything that Jaskier adores. The castle is nestled perfectly between the two, the shade of the forest wrapping around its stone walls and sun rays nearly entering a sunset shining down on the opposite side like they’re trying to light it on fire. 

Curiously, Jaskier swings himself off of Sedge and ties the horse to a tree, letting him rest in the shade. Fafa takes off up a tree after some sort of small creature - her favourite pastime. 

Jaskier knocks on the door, “Er- hello?” 

“Who’s there?” A voice says, and it sounds - it sounds  _ off,  _ somehow. 

“Just a traveller - a bard,” Jaskier says through the door, “I’m sorry, I didn’t know that somebody lived here.” 

“Well, I live here.” 

“Yes, I know that now. It just looks abandoned front he outside, is all.”

There are cobwebs across the door, stretching from the wood panels to the stone doorframe. They’re covered in dust. The front step up to the door is padded in thick moss. Jaskier looks back at Sedge, who’s trying to take his bridle off so that he can graze on all of the nice grass. 

“It’s not abandoned!” The voice shouts. And it almost - it almost doesn’t sound  _ real.  _

“Right, yes, sorry.”

“What do you want?” The voice doesn’t seem to be coming from behind the door. It’s almost like… almost like the voice  _ is  _ the building. 

“Oh, yes. Er- by any chance have you seen a Witcher come by? Geralt of Rivia.”

He doesn’t get a reply. He keeps talking, “The- the White Wolf, and a horse named Roach, too. They’re supposed to be in the area so I’m searching for them and was just wondering if you’ve seen them come by this… this absolutely wonderful establishment…” 

He trails off. It’s so quiet. Even the sound of the waves from the sea seem to have died down. He frowns. There isn’t even any birdsong anymore. He turns back to Sedge, shrugging. “I’ll take that as a no.” 

Sedge is standing as though he sees something terrifying behind Jaskier. 

Slowly, he turns. 

Everything is the same, though. Just a shabby castle between the forest and the ocean. Cobwebs and all. 

And then there’s a crack, and a groan and the walls come down around him. 

_ Geralt.  _

His lungs heavy for air, but he cannot get a steady breath. He chokes on blood, coughs and gurgles. He moves his head to the side and feels warm blood dripping from between his lips. He can’t feel his arm.  _ He can’t fucking feel his arm.  _ His legs are pinned into place and a wooden beam crushes up against his sternum. 

_ Geralt.  _

This isn’t supposed to happen to him. He fades in and out of consciousness. 

_ Geralt, please.  _

He wakes semi-coherently to the last dregs of sunset and tilts his head to see the colours split across the water in a crescendo of light. 

Well, there’s one thing that will never change. The sun will always be there to witness his sorrows. It’s only fitting, then, that it watches him as he fades away, too. He can die as it slips beneath the horizon. He thinks that he’ll be okay with that. He’ll be able to see Wren again. She’d have liked the sea, he decides. He wishes that he could have brought her there when they were both still alive. 

Jaskier coughs again. Fuck. 

_ Geralt.  _

Fafa nudges her head against Jaskier’s temple, against and again. 

“Ah, ‘orry, fah,” he says on the breath of a gasp. She’s always been a good hunter. She’ll be okay. And Sedge will be able to rip through the reins soon enough if he keeps pulling back. He’s a smart horse, he’ll make it to a town where someone else will be bound to take care of him. Hell, he’ll probably be taken care of better than he ever had been with Jaskier. 

So really, it’s okay. There’s not really anyone else left to remember him. Maybe a handful of townsfolk across the continent. Maybe somebody who liked his music. Maybe, maybe, maybe. 

_ Geralt.  _

Fafa butts her head against his  _ hard.  _

The sun seems to be suspended in the air. It’s not setting anymore, just hanging there in limbo. 

It’s waiting, Jaskier realizes. It’s waiting for him to get up. Maybe it wants him to sink into the ocean and rest in the waves. Maybe it wants him to walk away from it, to head back east to that beast of a dragon. Maybe it’s just waiting for him to untie Sedge so that the poor horse doesn’t give up and starve against the tree. 

It’s beautiful. 

He lets out a sob as he curls his good hand around the beam across his chest. He can only get his fingers to wrap around half of it. He screams as he tries to lift it. He screams and he screams and he screams and the sun just  _ watches.  _

_ Geralt, please, please Geralt I need you, I need you, I need you so so badly.  _

A long time must pass, because the sun, even in its stillness, has edged even further across the horizon. 

He screams and cries and heaves and almost vomits from the pain; almost gives up; almost passes out again. The beam moves. 

His muscles hurt so much. He pushes, throws everything he has left into it, desperately channelling every bit of sorrow and pain and fight that he’s ever had to endure into moving the bean from his body. It moves another inch, then another, and he almost drops it in his relief. 

He grits his teeth hard and catches a bit of his cheek in his mouth, and his tongue floods with even more blood. He screams louder than he ever has before through clenched teeth. 

The sun will witness no more of his sorrow. 

The beam crashes to the ground with a thud. Jaskier sobs with relief, chest burning with pain but he can  _ breathe  _ through it now. 

“Fuck,” he says, and Fafa licks his cheek. “Shit, Fuck.” 

It’s easier now to reach the stones pinning his right arm down. He pushes them aside. When he sits up, his head swirls, and he almost has to lay back down, “Fuck.” 

It’s even easier to move the stones from his legs, though he’s so weary and exhausted that he thinks he could probably sleep for the twelve years of this torturous life. He pushes himself to his feet and his knees buckle. He lands back on the ground in a puddle of his own blood  _ hard.  _ Fafa nudges him again. She’s worried. 

“I- I think I should rest for a moment, Fafa,” He murmurs. 

He’s still on his knees like that, one hand gripping the ground and the other hanging limply by his side when a man on horseback appears on the edge of the forest. The man dismounts quickly, and Jaskier doesn’t see how he gets to be right in front of him - isn’t sure if the man runs or walks but suddenly he’s  _ there.  _

“I’ve been hunting a ghost,” A voice so fucking painfully familiar says and it hurts more than the beam across his chest had, “I didn’t mean for you to get caught up in the chase.” It’s so many words strung together, and there’s some desperation to it, written in the depths. 

Jaskier tilts his head up, each of his muscles protesting. Every fibre of his physical behind telling him to lay down and rest, but every piece of his soul and heart urging him to look up.

Geralt of Rivia looks Jaskier up and down, taking in the bloody gash across his chest and the dust and snot, tears and blood mixed across his face. He looks at the limp, mangled arm and the shaking muscles. He looks at all of that matched desperation in Jaskier’s eyes. 

He holds out his hand.

“Jaskier.”

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> So there we go! I hoped you liked that! If you did, please consider leaving comments/kudos <3
> 
> You can find me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/Castellation_) for writing updates, art and horse pictures. 
> 
> Plus, check out the song "[Skin](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yU6gG-p5FZc)" by Rag'n'Bone Man that this fic is based on.


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